Like Stars, We Were Made to Crash and Burn
by astatheia
Summary: Sherlock finally returns to London. He's never been so attached and it hurts so much. But he can't bring himself see John. Not now. Not yet.


Sherlock Holmes had never been one to understand the concept of feelings such as sentiment.

He tried to avoid them if anything.

But that wasn't anything new. He had been emotionally detached all his life. Stranded from people, friends, society; people called him a freak; the rejection hadn't really affected him. He had lived with it all his life (basically) and it just told him that they were silly, boring, ordinary, people with tedious little lives and minds. People who saw but didn't observe. People who sat in small, uniform cubicles all day, hunched over keyboards for hours and deafened by the clacking of typing. People who felt and fell way too easily. The idea disgusted him.

Then there was him, John, dear John, his dear, dear John Watson. The one and only person who had managed to astonish him, to embrace his anomalous behaviour, mind and mannerisms. It had been such a shock at first, that small exclamation of "amazing" had him scrunching up his face. No one thought he was amazing, he was a freak, an outsider. _He was weird_. At first, Sherlock had thought John was weird; "Amazing" was a little different from his usual reply of "Piss off". It was then he knew that John was different from them, someone special among the stagnant population. And he had been right. John complimented him, he was Sherlock's complete polar opposite, yet they had worked together perfectly. It was incredible, a luxury even, to have someone he fitted together with so well. A component that slotted into Sherlock's life so immaculately, he wondered why it wasn't there before.

He even pondered if he had even become a little attached to him.

No, of course not, he didn't attach himself. He never was close to anyone, not Mycroft, not his mother, not anyone.

He had solidarity, aloneness, aloneness was his friend and his skull, and oh how he'd missed that skull.

But even as he thought that, a wave of longing rattled through Sherlock's body. His heart pounding so hard against his ribs it reverberated within his entire body, and making the tips of his fingers ache unexpectedly. His chest hurt and there was a pang in his stomach at the thought of not having John. It was a fact, and Sherlock was reluctant to admit it, but he had missed John greatly. He had felt so alone and vulnerable, so lost without his blogger, more alone than he actually felt being in solitude. John had protected him far more than being alone had. Being with John meant safety, comfort, home. Being with John meant boxes of takeaways, excess jars of jam, shopping for milk (that he never actually bought), that rush of excitement of a case and running through the neon-lit streets of London chasing wanted criminals. Without John nothing was right, it was not good.

It was then he realised that yes, he did care for John, a lot more than he would've assumed. Sherlock sighed in disappointment, how he dare let his guard down. But... He didn't, did he? He had always kept himself detached. It was just him, wasn't it? His open behaviour, the way he had let him into his life instead of pushing him away, his never-swaying loyalty. John gave him way too much, much more than everybody thought he deserved, maybe even a little bit more than he thought he deserved.

Sherlock's walls had stood tall and high, unmovable and impenetrable. Surrounding him like armour that shut him off from the world. He hid behind an emotionless mask; smooth, white porcelain that obscured feelings. But John pushed through all of that, he eroded his walls and cracked the mask. He stripped him of his defences and unknowingly uncovered the real him.

In a way, he supposed that Moriarty was right, that John was his heart. Well, not exactly. He had just managed to break through Sherlock's barriers and fill the cavity in his chest, where his heart was supposed to be.

John had deep blue eyes full of so much care, cared directed at him, but why? He didn't deserve care. No one cared about him.

No one cared.

Not even him.

/

White powder crunched under his feet as he walked along the isolated paths. Not many people were out and about at 4:32 in the morning. Streetlights on and houses dark, the night sky dimly lit by the moon and the minute amount of stars you could see through the smog of the city. Breath poured from his mouth in thin, white wisps, swirling and twining above his head much like the smoke of cigarettes and the snow that fluttered in the air.

The key he held in his pocket was warm and stuck to his hand due to moisture; warm fingertips running over all the grooves and bumps, a pattern he'd memorised for years. Small, sleek and silver, not a scratch marred the surface. It reminded him of how much it hadn't been used in the last couple of years. And he almost felt a tiny bit sad.

Almost.

Finally he reached his destination, an old, deep green door, golden numbers and letter and doorknob. 221B, the code that he had come to like years ago, the line of symbols he had come to memorise, to have roll off his tongue. It felt nice to shape the words from his mouth again as he pulled the key from deep in his pocket.

Slowly, he slipped it in the lock, gently turning it before pushing the old door open. It creaked loudly and he quickly sidled himself in to prevent too much noise. He locked the entrance once again and padded up the stairs, stepping over the squeaky one as he reached another green door.

Another key and lock later and he stepped into a disorganised room. Albeit messy, the room had been dusted; nothing had been touched, not even his old experiments. Mrs. Hudson still cleaned. Sentiment, he guessed.

The air was cold and a slice of silver cut across the room from the uncovered window. It gave the area an eerie aura, Sherlock believed it was rather tranquil for their... His home.

Boring.

He bounded upstairs and peered into his flatmate's bedroom. Empty, cleared of belongings and bed stripped of sheets, also covered in dust. Mrs. Hudson didn't clean upstairs then. John had moved out shortly after his death, unable to live in a place where he had once seen an extremely bizarre man who was alive, and to then live without him with his usual wont. It must have been a strange experience for him. Sherlock moved along, striding into his own room, shutting the door with a small click.

It was exactly as he had left it. He flicked the light on and removed his scarf, brushing the snowflakes from his hair. Snow covered shoes toed off, warm, black coat soon hung on a hook behind his door and shirt chucked in a laundry hamper.

He grabbed a towel and a change of clothes as he rushed into the bathroom. The idea of a hot shower was rather appealing as the night air hit his skin, belt off, pants thrown carelessly in a corner. A jet of water gushed out of the shower head, steam puffing out into the room quickly. He stepped in slowly, adjusting to the change temperature. It felt nice to have a shower, he'd been too busy to have one lately, and he believed that there was still a little blood under his fingernails, not his, of course. He ran a palmful of shampoo through his unruly black locks, ruffling them roughly as suds formed. A tedious task, he thought personal hygiene was, but one that must be exercised regularly, he supposed. He washed the rest of himself lazily, rinsing the foam in his hair last, now a soaked mop of flat coal tresses.

He shut the water off and grabbed his towel, wrapping the massive piece of flannel materiel around himself, rubbing his hair slightly. He dressed quickly, drying his hair by ruffling the towel over it in fast motions. He exited the bathroom as soon as he was done, light and fan turned off, towel on the floor having been used to mop up the extra water.

Sherlock chucked his pants in the hamper and flopped down on his bed. For once in his life, sleep actually seemed like a good idea. He hadn't slept in days, five to be precise, and it seemed that the lack of it was finally catching up to him. He wriggled his way under the covers and pulled the duvet up to his cheek, cold linens rubbing against his skin.

For the first time ever, Sherlock began to give in to the haze that over took his brain, gave in to the blackness that crept into his vision and slowly enveloped him

The next morning, Sherlock awoke in the afternoon, 12:54. It was a little shocking, but he supposed that it was okay seeming he hadn't slept in a while. He pulled the blankets off himself and sat up stretching, several bones cricking in his neck. He dressed himself quickly, the usual, a shirt, jacket and dress pants, pulling on his coat, scarf and gloves last. The noise of the bustling city reached his ears as he bounded down the stairs, thinking out the day's plan.

He would need to contact Mycroft to get John's location, seeming that his older brother almost certainly knew. This was slightly annoying, because he hated asking Mycroft for help. He clambered down the set of stairs to exit the building, making sure to jump over the squeaky one. He ventured outside, peering out on to the pathway curiously before sliding in and walking with the current of people. Hoping Mycroft's people didn't find him, or Lestrade, or Donovan, and definitely not Anderson, he kept his head down. But he had to admit, he wasn't one to 'blend with the crowd'.

Snow was piled on the sides of the path, dirtied with the footprints of the constant flow of people walking across it. The date had to be somewhere near Christmas, seeming there were many shops with props and stickers and lights.

Wait, Christmas?

He didn't have time to think about it, as his phone buzzed in his pocket, heart thumping abruptly from shock, he reached in and pulled it out.

_"You look a lot skinner. The coat doesn't hide anything- M"_

A curse escaped his mouth as Sherlock groaned inwardly (and childishly) and looked up to find attached to the corner of a building was a small camera, almost lost amongst the snow piled around it.

_"I hate you- SH"_

_"Oh don't get your pants in a bunch, when did you get back?- M"_

_"... Why should I tell you...?- SH"_

_"... We need to talk, Sherlock. John's been bad, you know, since you left- M"_

Sherlock looked down at the text with shock. He hasn't been expecting that kind of reply, more like a snarky comment in retaliation. His heart skipped a beat at the painfully familiar name.

_"... John...?- SH"_

_"Yes Sherlock, John. John Watson? The John you used to live with?- M"_

_"I know who John is- SH"_

The exterior of a sleek black car sidled into his peripheral vision, a woman coming out and opening a door for him. Of course he'd send someone to come fetch him.

"It's nice to see you sir," Anthea's monotonous voice reached his ears. "Mr Holmes has been concerned."

"I'm sure he has been," Sherlock rolled his eyes as he entered the vehicle. "Nice to see you again, Anthea."

Anthea smiled at him briefly before averting her attention to her Blackberry, texting away and leaving him to occupy himself. He observed his surroundings as they drove by. So, the date was around Christmas? Twenty fourth, seeing all the people bustling around the streets, almost obviously shopping for last minute gifts. Maybe he should get John something.

No, a gift means affection, affection means emotion. Emotion leads to sentiment. He avoids sentiment.

"We're here," Anthea's voice reached his ears. "You know where he is."

"Of course," Sherlock nodded as he bounded out of the vehicle. "Goodbye."

Anthea acknowledged his farewell with a small hum when he closed the door and twirled around. Striding into the familiar building, not even bothering to regard the secretary, he went straight for his brother's office.

"I'm here," Sherlock announced as he slammed the doors open violently. "Now what do you want?"

Mycroft didn't talk; he just stared at Sherlock expectantly, waiting for him to speak more. Knowing that they wouldn't get anywhere if he didn't say anything, he spoke quietly. Sherlock looked down at him incredulously, and shut the doors before standing before him.

"... How's... John...?"

Sherlock cringed inwardly as Mycroft's expression morphed into a smug yet pleased look. His older brother played with the umbrella handle perched against his desk.

"He's well, I suppose," Mycroft hummed softly. "Still working at St. Bartholomew's, moved out of 221B and into a small apartment flat, you could probably analyse the rest."

"What do you mean by 'well'?"

"Pardon?"

"Oh, don't play dumb with me Mycroft," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You used that specific tone of voice you only ever use whenever you're talking to me, like I'm a child."

"I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about." Mycroft crossed his legs and leant back in his chair.

"Come on! Of course you know what I'm talking about!" Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "You can't lie. Even though I hate you, I still know what mannerisms you have."

"I'm not lying, Sherlock." Mycroft's honey coated voice made him twitch, containing his anger.

Why couldn't Mycroft just tell him straight out? It annoyed Sherlock that his brother was once again, trying to stall. If and when Mycroft stalled, he was extremely good and you wouldn't even notice. Well, unless you were Sherlock. But he guessed he didn't really count, did he? He analysed his older brother's face, trying to pick out even the tiniest clues to figuring out why Mycroft wouldn't tell him anything. But his brother was smart, and was able to mask his emotions with a smug smirk.

"Goddammit Mycroft! Tell me!"

Sherlock's hand slammed down on Mycroft's desk forcefully, his black curls falling in front of his eyes as he leant towards his older brother with a harsh glare. Mycroft didn't even blink, but instead an expression of surprise was present on his face. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as the stretch of silence continued.

He was surprised that he hadn't lashed out at him about his 'diet' yet.

"What?!"

"You're defensive." Mycroft's voice held a hint of wonder.

"And?" Sherlock was getting impatient.

"Sherlock, you're defensive for... John..." Mycroft explained slowly. "Well, I suppose you're trying to be. You're worried why I won't tell you is because something's happened to him, or that I've done something to him or something absurd like that. What happened to being detached from people?"

Mycroft noticed Sherlock's gaze waver, and his inwards cringe

"I don't know what you're talking about Sherlock stated bluntly looking down at the desk, his pale hand curling against the wood. "I still don't attach myself to anyone."

"Sherlock, you're showing more emotion in this moment than all the emotion in your entire life, you didn't let anyone in, but then came John, and here you are," Mycroft looked into his eyes with a calculating stare. "You can't help it, brother, you've attached yourself to someone and you're too selfish to let go. But that's okay, we're all bound to do it sometime in our lives."

"I'm not like that Mycroft!" Sherlock gritted his teeth as he met eyes with him. "I'm a sociopath. Sociopaths don't connect with people."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Are you really that inhuman?"

"Yes. Of course I'm sure." His gaze was steady and persistent.

The thing was Sherlock hadn't felt so unsure about something in his life. And Mycroft knew. And he hated how Mycroft knew. He broke away from the stare and looked out the window. Mycroft watched him cautiously, and as he grabbed out a file, Sherlock found himself wondering. Would it really hurt to maybe be a bit sentimental?

That night, he went to John's apartment and left something by the door.

–

After that quick meeting with his brother, Sherlock decided it was time to go visit Molly, seeing as she was the one who helped him faking his suicide. He would have to be cautious though, John was still working here and if he wasn't careful, he could be stuck in a really awkward situation.

He looked up at the building as he entered it. To imagine that he actually jumped from there a few years ago was quite strange. Did he hate the building? No. There wasn't any reason to, besides, he chose it, and it could've been any old building Moriarty could've forced him off. It wouldn't have made a difference. When you fall, you fall the same way if you jumped off a hospital or a skyscraper. Sure, might've been more mess, longer fall, but he would've 'died' anyway. In addition to that, if he resented it every time he came into the building he wouldn't get any body parts (due to his stubbornness).

Walking through the halls almost brought a feeling of nostalgia to him, he held it back though. He was surprised people didn't question him about his appearance. No matter. Old stories fade as new ones come into place, things are forgotten and people are disregared, a simple cycle in society based off human behaviour.

Slipping quietly into the morge, he saw that Molly was alone examining a body, clipboard in hand and pen end being gnawed on. He stood behind her, watching her movements as she slowly looked down at the corpse.

"How fresh?"

Molly jumped, and twirled around with a hand to her chest. Sherlock looked at her with wide innocent eyes.

"You scared me." Her voice was quiet, showed she was used to it.

"How fresh?" He repeated completely disregarding her statement.

"No Sherlock, you are not getting anything from here okay?" Molly groaned, putting her stuff down. "Did you do it?

Sherlock huffed with a roll of his eyes. "Of course. Tracking and arresting three men isn't that hard."

"Over three years?"

"Had to make sure no one remembered me."

"... Do you want to see John now?"

The statement made his eyes widen like a deer caught in the headlights, and he immediately shook his head. That had caught him off guard. He couldn't see John yet. No.

"No."

"Why not? He missed you a lot," Molly's face scrunched up with concern. "Well, he still does really... Hasn't been the same since you, well, died... Did you miss him?"

Sherlock knew that even the most ignorant of people could've figured out that he did. Lying wasn't an option for him in this situation.

"I did," Sherlock reluctantly admitted. "Yes, I did... I..."

Molly stayed silent looking at him as if waiting for him to continue.

"... I missed him a lot..." Sherlock mumbled looking at his shoes. "I... Can't believe I'm saying this... But I felt alone without him... Is that weird?"

"It's okay to miss people Sherlock, people do that." Molly smiled at him sympathetically. "It's what humans do."

"I've been well informed that I'm certainly not human."

Molly laughed, and Sherlock wondered when she had become so immune to his distanced words. She walked up to him and held his hand. Her hand was warm against his glove, even in such a cold room.

"We're all human, Sherlock. Some of us are just scared to admit it."

And to be quite frank, deep down inside him, Sherlock was pretty sure he knew. He just didn't want to admit it. Not now. Not yet.

"... John's here somewhere..." Molly continued, dropping his leather covered hand and walking back to her clipboard. "I don't know where, but my best guess is in his office, it's-"

"I know," Sherlock interrupted shaking his head. "I can't."

"Of course you can," Molly looked back at him with a frown. "Why wouldn't you? You said you missed him, you should go see him."

"No I can't," Sherlock insistently repeated walking towards the door. "Not now, not yet... Just... Give me time... I will visit him, I promise, I just don't know how I'll deal with it, probably by being myself. Which... Won't be good... But I'll see him. I'll see him sooner or later, can't run forever in the big city of London, Hm?"

Molly blinked at him sadly. She had seen John suffer so much, seen him cry, break down, seen him fall and blame himself over and over. All she wished to do was tell the poor man about his plans, how Sherlock had to protect John by tracking down the three hit men. Sherlock didn't know just how much he had wrecked the doctor. Three years might've been enough time to get over a death, but it was no way enough time to get over a bond like no other. Sherlock and John shared a bond teetering on the edges of something platonic and something more, and Molly was pretty sure it leant more towards something more. She could just hope and pray that Sherlock didn't muck it up.

And that statement made her sad, because she knew that if he wanted to, Sherlock could run forever.

/

"You haven't gone to see him."

Mycroft's voice was incredibly annoying in the morning. His older brother had come to visit in the morning as he lay on the couch in his usual 'deducing' position. He had happily settled into 221B Baker Street once again, and Mrs Hudson now knew of his existence (which he had made her swear secrecy to so John didn't know). He had been frequently visiting Molly, mainly to try and nab some body parts so he could set up some experiments, yet she had been consistently trying to convince him to visit John.

"Yeeeeeess...?" The reply was dragged out.

So it was true, he hadn't gone to see John, but he had valid reasons. Well, sort of...

"Sherlock, you've been here for two weeks," Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "A few days of isolation, I could understand, but this is you, Sherlock. You like rushing into things, sorting out your life is no different." "I know."

"But why?" Mycroft asked curiously. "... I've asked around. Molly told me that you said you... Missed him. Is that true?"

Sherlock wasn't even surprised by the fact his brother had asked Molly. Mycroft got information any way he needed. He stared at the roof and sighed. He had seen John, but John hadn't seen him, so that counted right? Well, more or less. He had purposely been avoiding the doctor, but had been checking up on him, observing his actions and behaviour, which Molly was right about. John was much sadder, his limp had come back and he barely talked to anyone. Also, he hadn't been dating anyone for ages, which was strange; seeming John liked to flirt endlessly.

"I need time," Sherlock muttered out in a single breath. "A little more time..."

"Time doesn't wait forever, Sherlock," Mycroft chided, tapping his umbrella on the floor. "You know that especially Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock repeated closing his eyes. "I just can't go see him. Not now. Not yet."

"Why not?" Mycroft walked and stood beside the couch, looking down at him. "You aren't one to stall about something. You're the type of person to be blunt and straightforward. To see you hold back against something is quite a bizarre sight. It's unnatural, I do wish for you to revert back to your usual rebellious ways."

"I'm sorry I can't meet your expectations, Mycroft," Sherlock's face remained emotionless. "But I'm thinking."

"About what? Feelings...?" Sherlock's eyes shot open at that statement, pale blue-green eyes staring up at him. Mycroft stated back with an inquisitive expression, softer brown eyes looking back at him. They analysed each other. Thoughts and observations, all dragged out from the physical appearances of their faces. Sherlock gave in, curling up in a foetal position and facing away from his brother.

"Oh... I'm right," Mycroft's voice was obviously pleased. "What is it Sherlock? Why won't you visit John? Surely you can overcome emotion to visit your only friend."

"Mycroft, shut up," Sherlock sighed into the couch cushion, voice muffled by the fabric. "Just leave."

His older brother stayed silent for a while, calculating look watching over Sherlock. Mycroft finally moved, the quiet taps of his umbrella in sync with soft footfalls signalling that he was headed towards the door. He decided he would just let his brother leave, and then irritate him a few days later, but that would be annoying. Now that he considered it, Mycroft was the person he was 'closest' to after John, and even though he despised him, Mycroft was his own blood and flesh, who he knew was genuinely concerned for him. He would listen to him ramble, he wouldn't judge him.

As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, sometimes Mycroft was the only person he could run to.

"I'm scared," He finally murmured out before his brother could leave. "... Mycroft, what's happening to me?"

The older Holmes looked back at him with a confused gaze, but walked back to Sherlock's side, which felt his gaze on him, and shimmied deeper into the couch. Time stretched between them and Sherlock spoke up once again.

"I'm scared of him, I... I always believed myself to be unable to register these emotions... I made sure of it, divorced myself from it at a young age. But now... Now I'm actually experiencing fear, and it's one of the most unsettling things my brain had ever faced," Sherlock found himself rambling, and had to make sure he found some blackmail to use against Mycroft if he ever used this towards him. "I hate it. Emotions, feelings, sentiment, God... I can't stand to believe I've fallen victim to them... It shows weakness.

Mycroft had pulled out the chair at the desk and dragged it over to near Sherlock. His umbrella hung off the back, legs crossed, hands in lap as he tried to accumulate a suitable answer. This was the first time his brother had spoken to him about a subject so personal since Sherlock was about four-years-old, so it must be extremely touchy. Sherlock rarely sulked.

"We are all slaves to emotion, Sherlock," Mycroft finally answered with a gentle voice. "After you had spent so many years from childhood to now blocking everyone off, then having someone who completely understood you and cared. It's only natural that one day, it would become a little too much." Sherlock opened his eyes. He knew Mycroft was right, but he sometimes wished that he wasn't.

"That one day, you would crave companionship and your plans of solitariness would collapse on you. It's human instinct." Mycroft continued, watching as his younger brother's hands gripped against the couch. "And Sherlock I know you've forced yourself into believing otherwise, but you aren't a sociopath. You're just a really good actor."

He didn't move, fisting the dull fabric of the couch in his hands. That wasn't true. He was a sociopath, he didn't connect with people. But then he thought of John, and how he actually cared for him, and how he thought of John as his only friend. Sherlock closed his eyes, analysing the situation.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked curiously, swivelling around to face his brother with a questioning look.

Mycroft looked surprised. "What about me?"

"You aren't a sociopath, you communicate with people every day," Sherlock stated slowly. "Yet you don't have any 'friends'... Why...?"

His brother's face looks blank for a moment, before he pulled his left hand from his lap with a sigh and held it in between them. Pulling himself up, Sherlock examined his hand sceptically. Long, bony fingers, just like his own. Slightly inky from writing, most probably signing contracts. The skin was soft; he didn't use his hands over excessively, not like him. However, the main difference was a strip of gold wrapped around his fourth finger. Small engravings slightly similar to vines were etched into it. It was quite new, only about two years old. Sherlock's eyes widened with understanding.

"... You got married...?!" He exclaimed incredulously. "Why?! No wait, since when were you in a relationship?! More importantly, how come I didn't know?!"

"Because my partner and I wanted to," Mycroft huffed obviously embarrassed. "And it's been a secret. Wedding wasn't extravagant or anything.

"... And you didn't tell me this why...?"

"It's you, Sherlock," Mycroft rolled his eyes mockingly. "Why would you be interested in my love life? You'd most probably tease me about it if anything and you already embarrass me a lot."

"Yeah, I know, that's why I wanted to know," Sherlock leant back with an exasperated sigh. "Who is it anyway?"

"... No one you'd know..." Mycroft hummed lightly.

"Are you homosexual Mycroft? Because by your behaviour, it looks like you're showing signs of lying." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And un-comfortableness. Therefore, the person is someone I know and also male. I don't know many people, so this narrows it down greatly."

Mycroft looked away, tilting his head up snobbishly. A blush was evident on his cheeks though, that showed that Sherlock had been right.

"Come on Mycroft, do I have to lecture you about how much weight you've put on or will you tell me?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "... Is it John?!"

"No," Mycroft glared at him. "Of course not, but it sounds like someone's jealous."

"Pffft, me jealous? I believe you're mistaken, besides, this conversation is about you, not me," Sherlock sniggered. "... Is it Anderson!? It better not be Anderson! I would actually kill myself if I had to be related to someone with that low an IQ!"

"No, it's not Anderson," Mycroft held his hands to his face. "I barely know who he is. However, I believe he sounds extremely irritating."

"Oh. Well then that only leaves..." Sherlock trailed off before his eyes widened and he stated at his brother shell-shocked. "You are kidding!"

"What?!" Mycroft's cheeks flared up again.

"You and Lestrade?! Really?!"

"Shut up Sherlock!"

That really surprised him. Seeing as Mycroft rarely used colloquial language. Guess he was right then. But the thought of his brother and his close acquaintance (who ran to him for help) being in a romantic relationship made him shudder.

"That is just bizarre," Sherlock stated bluntly. "I never thought you'd turn out to be-

"Do be quiet Sherlock," Mycroft had regained what little bit of his composure he had left. "Yes, Gregory and I are married. Now that's established, I expect you to go see John soon. Or Gregory, seeing you haven't reintroduced yourself to him. Aren't you dying for a case?"

To be honest, Sherlock was. His feelings weren't the most interesting thing he could be thinking about.

/

"How long have you and my brother been romantically involved?"

Lestrade jumped at the voice and spun around. Seeing Sherlock, he turned pale and stumbled back, falling against his desk. He had decided to visit Lestrade a few days after his second meeting with his brother. It was late at night, when Sherlock knew that the Detective Inspector was alone and at the office. His eyes were wide, and Sherlock could see that on his left hand that braced himself on the table had an identical ring to Mycroft's on the fourth finger. Sherlock knew that Mycroft didn't lie unless needed, but the fact that he and Lestrade were in a relationship was still unbelievable.

"Jesus! You scared me!" Lestrade hissed giving him a glare. "And how do you know about that?!"

"I'm guessing Mycroft told you of my return," Sherlock said blankly. "Due to your lack of denial. And I'm pretty sure you can guess that he also told me about your relationship."

He didn't tell Lestrade that his relationship was revealed while Sherlock was having a slight panic.

"Yes, well, we do see each other often, and he told me so I wouldn't come home and punch him in the face for not telling me, or you for just creeping up like that," Lestrade sighed pulling himself up. "Smart choice, because that's probably what I would've done if I hadn't been warned."

"Whatever, answer my question," Sherlock shook his head. "I do wish to know."

"Fine, we've been married for two years," Lestrade scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "And together for about five..."

"Tell me everything."

"Why?!"

"So I can use it against Mycroft."

"No, Sherlock, why would I do that? He's my husband," Lestrade ruffled his own grey hair. "I wouldn't allow you to use information about our relationship as blackmail!"

"... Well it was worth a shot..." Sherlock muttered, shoving his gloved hands in his pockets. "Do you still have John on cases?"

"Occasionally, why?"

"Don't tell him about me," Sherlock stated looking away. "He can't know."

"Are you saying that you haven't been to see John yet?" Lestrade's eyes widened with shock. "Why not? He was wrecked after your death. Well, 'death'..."

"Reasons, why does everyone have to ask?" Sherlock hunched up his shoulders as he started to head to the door. "Goodbye, I'll see you some other time... Gregory..."

"Really?" Lestrade laughed amusedly.

"Technically, we are related... You're by brother in-law, by marriage," Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "We should get on better terms if I am to see you more often..." He added with a sarcastic note. "Oh, I can't wait until you come to the family dinners!"

"Shut up!" Lestrade flushed furiously as Sherlock reached the doors. "Goodbye."

It was quiet for a while, until Sherlock heard the Detective Inspector's voice from behind him.

"... Sherlock..!" Lestrade's voice echoed throughout the empty building. "... You should go see John... Everyone's been worried for him. And he's the only one you haven't gone to see."

"I know," Sherlock called back. "I will."

_Just give me more time... _

/

To be honest, Sherlock had absolutely no idea of what he was doing, or supposedly doing. In fact, he had the faintest idea of what the point of him doing what he was doing was. It was all rather confusing. His black Belstaff coat camouflaged him into the shadows as he walked down London's desolate alleyways.

Using some stairs attached to the side of a building, he managed to hop through an open window and into a corridor of doors, an apartment block. Muttering a number under his breath, he sauntered around briskly as he tried to find it. A few floors up, he picked a lock and slowly entered. The opening area was empty except a couple of pairs of shoes. Sherlock peered around the corner, and silently padded on the carpeted floors. A figure sat at a desk, staring at a computer blankly. His back was to him, he supposed that was a good thing

Quivering hand, full of fear, a heart beating so hard he thought it could be heard. Trembling fingers reached out, almost brushing a slumped shoulder, but not. He pulled back, hand fisting against leather. He couldn't do this. He needed more time. He pulled his hand over his chest, it hurt, and every thump of his heart sent a wave of pain through his being. He hated it; he wanted it to go away. He took a step back, and another, and another. He couldn't do this. It was too emotional. He couldn't deal with emotion.

"I'm so... so sorry John..."

He must've said it out loud because he noticed that the person at the desk had tensed up. His eyes widened when a painfully familiar voice spoke out.

The words had never come off his tongue easier.

And it terrified him.

"... You aren't real..." John's voice laughed out emptily. "You died... You died three years ago... I can't believe I still hear your voice sometimes..."

Sherlock felt something snap in his chest, reverberating into a wave of aching shock. He moved forwards, pressing his hand to the right shoulder again.

"... I'm... I'm... I'm not... Dead..." Sherlock found that the words clung to the sides of his throat. "Please John..."

The muscles of John's shoulder were taut with anxiety under Sherlock's hand. His voice cracked as he spoke.

"A figment of my imagination," John chanted quietly. "If I just ignore it will go away."

Why wouldn't John turn around to look at him? He moved to the side of the desk, seeing John now had his head in his hands, the computer still on and forgotten. Sherlock nudged him gently, noticing that a faint shine was trickling through his fingers. John was crying.

"Why won't you look at me?" Sherlock asked confusedly. John remained silent. Sherlock got angry.

"_Why won't you look at me?!_" It was more of a demand than a question.

"Because you're not..." John yelled back turning to glare at him. His face contorted before morphing into an expression of disbelief. "... Real..."

Sherlock scanned his face, searching for signs of recognition and belief beyond the denial. Clouded cerulean eyes cleared as John stared at him more.

"I'll prove it," Sherlock exhaled roughly. "Punch me."

It was probably one of the most stupid things Sherlock had ever done in his life, but he would do anything to mend the relationship between him and John. The ex-army doctor shakily stood up, still looking at him in shock. A few seconds later, a fist was connecting with his face with powerful force. Sherlock growled out, holding his cheek with both hands and hissing when he tasted blood. Apparently, it hasn't only affected him, John was cursing as he held his hand close to his chest.

"... Do you see...?" Sherlock grounded out. "I'm alive John, I didn't die."

Sherlock looked up just as John threw another punch to his face.

Unbalanced, he fell to the ground, pulling John's sleeve. The doctor toppled down on top of him, knelt between his legs, fist poised to give another blow. His eyes were angry, but he was also slightly happy, and sad, and really shocked.

"You... You... Fucking bastard!" John shouted as he tried to vent his anger out. "You're alive?! Why didn't you tell me?!"

Sherlock used his hands to defend himself from the attacks, managing to grasp John's wrist and effectively stopping him. Despite what people thought, he was actually quite strong. His clothing just made him look skinner.

"I had to protect you! If I didn't jump you would've died!" Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I couldn't let you die John!"

"Why the fuck not, Sherlock?" His voice sounded bitter and hateful. "I would've save you! Do you know how many times I blamed myself for that?!"

"Three men, John," Sherlock whispered lowly. "When Moriarty made me jump, there were three men. Assassins. One for you, one for Mrs Hudson, one for Lestrade. If I didn't jump, all you would've died. If I didn't jump, my only friend and close acquaintances would be gone. Do you know how important it was for me to protect you?! You don't. You don't know what it felt like!"

"... What about how I felt? How important it was for me to protect you!" John countered angrily. "I died when you fell, Sherlock, so don't you dare go saying that I didn't know how it felt! And I know you don't care, but you're... You're worth protecting."

"But.. I do," Sherlock looked at John with a hurt expression. "I do care."

"What's it like caring then, Sherlock?" John glared at him as his wrists were released and he dragged himself off the taller man.

"… It's knowing you can trust someone and knowing that they can trust you. And it's knowing that you should definitely keep them close and knowing they want you close too," Sherlock was pondering in his head if these words were too cheesy, but they were what he felt when he was around John, so he didn't think they were wrong. "It's being scared for them when they're hurt or in danger and its being afraid for them when they say they're fine. It's wanting them there for you, with you... It's hoping that they'll be there even when you're sure they won't and it's being terrified of letting go. And I'm afraid John, I really am."

"You once told me you were a sociopath," John's voice quivered. "Sociopaths don't care."

"I know. But... I care for you John, I... Really do," Sherlock hauled himself off the ground and stood before the older. "So maybe... Maybe... I'm not a... Complete... Sociopath. Maybe I was just... Waiting for the right person to... Care for."

It was hard for Sherlock to do this. He wasn't used to so many emotions coursing through his system at a time. He was caring for someone so much it frightened him. That was why he couldn't have come here immediately; he needed time to build himself up to be able to face these feelings. He needed time to be able to face John without crumbling to pieces. He needed time to learn how to feel. He needed time to break down his walls and be ready to follow his heart instead of his logical mind.

He needed time to finally admit he was human.

"... I can't deal with this..." John started walking away from him. "Sherlock, leave."

Stunned, Sherlock just stood there, eyes wide and heart hammering in his head. John sighed and pushed him back towards the door. The rejection hurt a lot more than he believed it would, he tried it with his skull. But then again, John meant more than his skull, so much more. He guessed he couldn't really compare it.

"Out Sherlock," John sounded much like he did sometimes. "C'mon..."

He kept himself grounded as John struggled to push him into the lobby again. Finally realising his situation, Sherlock fought the smaller male, wrapping his arms around John in an almost defensive way.

"Sherlock! What-"

"Don't." Sherlock's voice was gentle but demanding.

"Don't wh-"

"You can't."

"Can't wha-"

"Leave."

"Why no-"

"Because you just can't," Sherlock hugged John tighter, pulling him slightly off his feet. "You can't make me leave."

"Care to elaborate?" John gasped out.

"No, not really. But I suppose to convince you, I will need to," Sherlock sighed, nuzzling John's neck. "Alright, I'm scared John, terrified even. I'm scared, and I'm scared that I'm scared for the lack of better words. Because I've never been so afraid in my life."

"Why are you scared?" John furrowed his brow.

"Because..." Sherlock's voice was muffled into John's collar, soft and full of something John could only describe as fear. "I'm scared that if I let you leave, you won't come back. That you'll leave forever, just like everyone else. I'm afraid that if I walk away, I'll never see you again. And I think I know why. I think we're all scared, as humans. We're scared to let go because we think we'll never find anything so brilliant again."

"So you're guessing?"

"I never guess."

"Yeah you do."

"... Educated guess then..."

"Still a guess."

"I love you John..."

The never ending ramble in his head chanting he single phrase had instantaneously taken over his mind an mouth, the affectionate words flowing out as an almost inaudible whisper. He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but it happened. He unwrapped himself from around John and stood back.

"Uh... I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled leaning against the door awkwardly. "I didn't mean to... Um... Say that... Just forget it... Yes?"

John's face was still tilted down, so Sherlock couldn't quite see his emotions. He wasn't quite sure he was willing to observe them either. Suddenly, he felt himself being pushed against the door, a head in his chest and John's arms wrapped tightly around him. He cautiously placed his arms around the ex-army doctor's waist and back.

"I love you too dumbass."

Sherlock smiled in relief and hugged John back, nuzzling the blond hair beneath his lips. He heard John sobbing into his coat.

"... Thank you..."

"How could you not know?" John laughed out emptily, almost sadly. "I sat at your grave for hours on end, talking, writing notes; I'm surprised you didn't pick up on it sooner. I was a bloody wreck when you 'died'."

"I'm sorry John..."

"It's okay," John looked up at him. "Your here, and I guess that's all I could ask for really."

Sherlock nodded and moved them to in the middle of the living room, arms still stubbornly wrapped around each other. He didn't know why, he just thought it was too closed in and dark in the lobby. Here, the dim light of the desk lamp gave off a muted glow and out the window, uncovered; the stars and moon were slightly visible. There was a blue scarf draped over the chair.

"You got my gift."

"That was from you?" John asked quietly, a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Obviously."

"Really, I thought it was from Mycroft..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulled John from his chest and wiped the stray tears from his face before slouching to lean in closer. John, understanding the situation, stood up on the balls of his feet more, making it easier for the consulting detective.

"Don't ever leave me again..."

"I promise I won't leave..."

Neither was sure which person spoke first, the words merging into one random sentence. Sherlock finally brought them together, pressing his cool lips against John's nervously licked ones.

The contrast made the genius shiver, and the thought of being so intimate with John was unbelievable. He could hear his heart in his head, and the fear he once had was drained away. Sherlock was the one doing everything though, only a small amount of retaliation coming from John, he thought that it could be because he was letting Sherlock try things out. He kissed back harder, a silent plea. What John didn't know what Sherlock wasn't completely oblivious in the knowledge of relationships. He just wasn't into them. When John finally started to press against him, he smiled against his lips, making John laugh too. They didn't know how long they'd been kissing, but John pulled away, soft yet heavy breathing filled the silence between them. It wasn't long before they were kissing again. And Sherlock decided, he could live with this, that this was a relationship he was willing to commit himself to. And he also decided that maybe it was okay for him to be human.

Maybe it was okay to give in to emotion, because everyone does.

And it's okay.

Because like stars, we were _made_ to crash and burn.

/

**Hey! First story! Yay! I don't know if it's that good. And Sherlock seems a little out of character. So does John now I think about it… But asides from that minor fact, I hope you enjoyed it!**


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